#𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒 — a multi-fandom multimuse for original characters as well as game/anime/manga characters (originally established in 2018, moved in 2026) medium activity, EST
featuring 𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐀 from 𝐖𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒
AFF. —
as written by MYTHE, she/her, latine, 35+
RULES | MUSES (MOBILE) I INTEREST CHECKER
ASK MEMES | RELATIONSHIPS | BLOGROLL
IMPORTANT: if you follow/interact/are friends with/enable Noah/Aloe (current url unknown, formerly canonicus/dhabibi/azizam/dhahabibi/basbousah/amanturine), dni/block me. Her behavior is beyond reprehensible and I have no patience for people who enable/excuse her attitude and actions/pretend she's not the kind of awful person she is simply because of 'popularity' or 'not wanting drama'. Lying about following/interacting with her in any way on any blog is an instant hardblock.
FOLLOWING —
This blog is PRIVATE & MUTUALS-ONLY. I don't interact with non-mutuals or anyone under 21. I won’t follow at all if there's not an alias and a rules/about page easily available.
I don't fuck with fujos. Get your thinly-veiled internalized misogyny out of my house, we actually love and respect female characters here.
I WILL NOT interact with canon characters that are completely divorced from their canon/characterization or whose writers can't be bothered with the canon's lore.
I also absolutely WILL NOT interact with blogs attempting to woobify/'redeem' Rerir or anyone that goes along with anyone writing it. Sorry, but that's a nazi/gestapo allegory, and as an immigrant PoC in the current political climate, it makes me extremely uncomfortable.
Otherwise, standard DNIs apply: no racists, homophobes, transphobes, abuse glorifiers, incest/proshippers, people who age up characters for smut/ships, etc.
CONTENT & TAGGING—
This blog is 18+ and NSFT– with the nature of a good number of the series I write from, violence and sexual content are both possibilities. I'm not particularly shy about sexual things either at my age, so I won't be toning anything like that down. If any of that bothers you, please feel free to block/softblock as necessary.
Any and all possibly triggering content will be tagged accordingly with '[trigger] tw/cw' to the best of my ability.
If you need something specific tagged, don't hesitate to let me know. If I forget, remind me- I'm old, babes.
SHIPPING & INTERACTING —
If you think writing characters as anything but the popular fanon sexuality when they're not actually canon is some kind of crime, this is not the blog for you.
If you have something against female characters in any capacity this is definitely not the blog for you.
Relationships on this blog will require chemistry, effort and development from BOTH PARTIES. If you refuse to make an effort and/or expect me to do all the work, it WILL be dropped and I’ll likely block you. Expecting communication and reciprocity isn't a crime/'toxic'.
I won't ship with more than TWO versions of any canon character, but I will not be doing exclusives for my own comfort.
Ships for my male muses are based on vibes/heavy plotting and mostly for the homies unless I find myself compelled. So if you're interested, compel me bro.
DRAMA & HATE —
If you don't respect people's DNIs, don't bother following me.
Listen, I just want peace, so if you bring me problems, you shouldn't get upset when I react accordingly. Especially if those problems are in any way because of people you want to ship with. I'm TOO FUCKING OLD, and most of y'all are too.
Ergo: if you've heard something bad about me, either believe it and block me or come clear it up with me, but don't fake being nice with me.
If you at any point have a genuine issue with me, please speak to me. If you truly think it's irreconcilable/you really don’t like me, then block me. Curate your own space.
The first two words that left his lips upon seeing her were tinged with exasperation. Not quite annoyance, but close to it. Sylus' arms were crossed over his broad chest, his piercing gaze cast slightly downwards to meet the gaze of the person he'd spent only a few minutes waiting for to arrive. Though he made it sound as though those few minutes were equivalent to an eternity.
❝ Patience might be something of a virtue of mine, but only insofar as planning and waiting for an adversary to make a mistake. Not when it comes to something I've been anticipating. ❞
Ah, so that was what it was. He'd been eager to see her again. He wouldn't have said it outright, but the meaning behind those words were clear enough. To think that he of all people would be so needy that just a quarter of an hour of waiting would make him so... huffy.
What he says and what he means are seldom the same thing. Yet she parses the intent without needing to second-guess it at this point, one hand on her hip, the other lifted to point at his chest.
"You know getting to the N109 Zone without drawing attention can get a little... tricky sometimes." The finger moves forward, just once, gloves meeting a button with a light prod. "And someone has been pretty insistent I be more careful..."
To one side, Mephisto gives a sneering little caw and while she's not sure he's entirely agreeing with her- well. When it comes to that bird, she'll take what she can get. Her hand moves from pointing at Sylus to gesturing at the cybernetic corvid in question, brows arching.
"See? Even he knows I'm right. Besides..." Hand slipping into her jacket, she tugs out a pair of tickets, waving them in front of her face. "I had to stop for these. Can't really get in to see that limited preview screening without tickets, can we?"
Sylus wasn't the only one who had his own ways to get things done.
send "OTPs + nOTPs + [a muse name]" for me to list out my favourite pairings, and the pairings i am not interested in, for that muse.
OTPs
me, jokingly: hey ani what do u think about arlezani- <- and that dear readers is where mythe fucked up.
i don't really have any canon ships i like for her though like. zani is another one of those cases where her interpersonal relationships don't get touched on much and there's nothing that stands out to me as interesting.
nOTPs
carlotta and phoebe. the former bc that's technically her boss and also the montellis are the exact kind of complication zani does not want in her life. the latter bc i'm sorry but that looks like a 14 year old to me no matter how old she may actually be. also i don't really... care about her as a character which isn't her fault but... yeah.
send "OTPs + nOTPs + [a muse name]" for me to list out my favourite pairings, and the pairings i am not interested in, for that muse.
OTPs
uhhhhh... i don't really. have any canon ones? like she's generally implied to be Much Older than most of the current jinzhou resonators, and we haven't really seen her interact with anyone but rover otherwise so... crossover-wise i think about her and jing yuan a lot but god knows no one with sense would let them meet-
nOTPs
jinhsi. that's not only her disciple but i do think her and Changli's relationship trends toward an informal older sister/younger sister dynamic. also like with eula, no way she'd fuck with any of the fractsidus so...
send "OTPs + nOTPs + [a muse name]" for me to list out my favourite pairings, and the pairings i am not interested in, for that muse.
OTPs
i'm partial to Euluc and Eula/Kaveh bc i love rarepairs, but thanks to one of the more recent events i think Eula/Clorinde could be cute if developed properly. also shout out to the one time my friend and i decided that eula/hijikata fgo would go hard bc we were, very frankly, correct.
nOTPs
any of the younger knights- mika, amber, lohen- or any fatui. like. can you imagine the grief she'd get on the latter? like 'oh sure of course the lawrence would consort with the enemy-'
very sleepy today so not sure how much writing i'll get done. however i am once more in hell thinking about xun since i was transcribing some of my metas for him again and my god i love this stupid dragon man...
@miburoni said: meta on atalanta's relationship to achilles?
You really had to do this to me, huh--
The thing is, Atalanta is (initially at least) very much annoyed by Achilles. Of course she knows who he is, and more importantly, she knows whose son he is, which is the crux of her irritation with him. She has no doubt that Achilles was raised well, that he was given the best he could be, which is why his impetuousness bothers her so much. His superiority is inherent, it’s known- there’s no reason for him to walk around as if everyone should be ready to bend to his whim all the time. Even if he is royalty, so is Atalanta, so are many of the other Servants, but Achilles is, as ever, filled with that unfortunate pride of his. It drives him to border on disrespectful when speaking to her, and if there’s one thing Atalanta won’t tolerate from anyone, it’s that.
She, who is not nearly so vaunted a Hero, is nevertheless an Argonaut, a huntress, the sole feller of the Calydonian boar and the fastest woman in Greece. She is the one and only Princess of Arcadia, regardless of whether or not she cares for the position. She is almost every bit as venerable as him save for her mortal blood, and she is strong enough and capable enough to command respect.
Yet Achilles, whose father was Atalanta’s comrade, who would certainly have told him of her exploits, treats her (at first) as nothing more than another, ordinary woman. A bauble, a prize- as if her lfe’s story wasn’t full enough of that already. Achilles acts as if, despite knowing what he does and being who he is, Atalanta should nevertheless see him as not only an equal, but someone who deserves her respect and adulation. And Atalanta... isn’t really that kind of person. So for a good portion of the story, Achilles rubs her in all the wrong ways because of this attitude.
That said, when it comes down to it, I don’t think (with the exception of one headcanoned person on Atalanta’s side) anyone else understands the two of them the way they understand each other.
Because they know each other and they know of each other, Atalanta and Achilles have a very unique insight into each other’s points of view. Even if they don’t agree with each other’s goals all the time, they can understand and respect where the other is coming from. They understand the hows and whys of their actions, because of the way their myths/histories intersect. Achilles understands that Atalanta is not ‘evil’ in the way the average person’s morality will make her seem, and Atalanta understands that Achilles’ pride doesn’t always make him callous or unable to sympathize the way most might expect. In fact, in the latter respect, I think Atalanta more than anyone except perhaps Chiron understands just how emotionally-driven Achilles can be-- which is part of what makes the way things end for them so tragic but also so good.
Because Achilles has always been someone who does the most when someone he cares about gets hurt. And the fact that he did all he did to ‘save’ Atalanta’s ability to remain true to herself as a ‘hero’ speaks to how much, despite all his bravado, he really does care about her. And the fact that Atalanta accepts his efforts in the end shows how much she cares about him. Not in a romantic sense (because once again, she’s friends with his father) but in the sense of someone who’s watched a nephew do something incredible for them and is both proud and grateful for their efforts.
So yes, Achilles and Atalanta are very important to each other, but in a way that’s so much more meaningful than the half-brained ‘romance’ a lot of fandom seems to want to shove them into.
𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐑𝐎𝐓 or complications in the tending of snowfield roses
(unfortunately (for him)) featuring @apocryphis's Aventurine | 2,193 words
𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐈𝐌, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐃𝐔𝐌𝐁 𝐀𝐓 the sight of him — not at his good looks, but at the pale, perilous phantom of your (former) self that seems to shadow his every step. He presents himself practiced, pristine and preening- a peacocking little pauper in a prince's trappings. Aventurine of Stratagems, one of the IPC's Stonehearts who was once little less than a person to them. For all intents and purposes, he likely still is- more expendable asset than human being. You believe know all you really need to know about him- except for the fact that looking at him is like looking in a kaleidoscope funhouse mirror.
He charms your contemporaries, your supporters- promises them the sky and stars wrapped in a neat, shimmering bow- and has the gall to look startled when your immediate refusal is met with unwavering support. Your constituents know, after all, which of you has their best interests at heart, so if he thinks, genuinely, that he's going to outdo you with one single, barely month-long campaign, he's sorely mistaken. He takes it better than you expect, but he doesn't stop trying.
And you hate him a little for it, at first.
You hate him more when he calls you 'friend' during attempted renegotiation- coos it, cloying and coquettish, but you recognize it for what it is: the carnivorous croon of a capable con-man- and you reply, without hesitation, that you no longer do business with 'friends'. He looks at Alexa like an accusation, you look at him like a warning. There are lines he should not cross with you- and you inform him of them without ever really saying a word.
Roses have thorns, Stoneheart- you should handle them with care.
(You don't think about how the last 'friend' you did business with was someone you took full advantage of without remorse. You don't think about how much the way he goes about things feels the same.)
Persistent to a fault, he seems to take offense to your refusal to fall for his flashy phrasing, his gaudy overtures. Offers 'gifts' you insinuate are bribes, offers 'compromises' you point out the losses in. Your people do not need the IPC's money, but the IPC desperately wants your System's power. Not a single one of those in positions of leadership are willing to cede it to them, and it becomes a stalemate. You become the figurehead on the chessboard, an immovable queen carved from rose-colored ice, a perennial, perpetual thorn in the IPC's side.
However, for as insistent as his bosses are, for how much they try and threaten, he, instead, learns.
It feels insulting to put it that way, but it's the truth of it; the IPC cares less about Grandis than it does about what it holds. Its people, its locales, its traditions- none of them mean a damn thing to the executives in their far-off homes, and it isn't long before that truth is spread around the people. Soon enough, most of the IPC deems it a waste to persist — but you have made yourself known to the cosmos at large long before it gets to that point. They have no recourse but to withdraw strategically, leaving Aventurine their sole point of contact. Most consider it a mercy he wasn't fired; you recognize it at the punishment it is.
The IPC still wants blood from this particular stone, and they expect him to be the one to squeeze it out- even if it's from himself.
You don't feel bad for him.
(Until you do.)
Not because he makes any particular appeals to your sympathy, but because you can tell, with every week he spends shuttling between planets in Grandis, how much it costs him everywhere else. There is no reprieve from other responsibilities, no assistance in managing his time, his work, the weight of the IPC's expectations that continues to be piled heavier and heavier on his shoulders.
You are called to retrieve him from one of the VIP rooms of the Golden City, alone and asleep not even a third of the way through his first drink. You are certain he didn't mean to pass out here. You are also certain he did not do so on purpose. However, there are Espers in Utgard who can easily put the unsuspecting to sleep without any chemical assistance. He probably didn't think to consider the fact. You have the Esper in question arrested, thank Alexa for her discretion, and decide to handle him yourself. To you, he weighs next to nothing, and you step through the purposefully-emptied employee corridors with him in your arms, irritated.
Aventurine sleeps like the dead.
(Aventurine sleeps like a scared child, curling into your warmth and murmuring a name you'll only understand later when he tells you who she is.
You never tell him you were the one to carry him out when he awakens, groggy and half-panicked, in your office the next day.)
Both of you come to an uneasy truce then, attempt to form something like a mutual understanding. You can't help but keep seeing shadows of yourself in him though- but worse still, you see flickers of people you love there too. He weaponizes his looks like Alexa, clawing his way into as much power as he can manage while making fools of arrogant men. He dredges up knowledge like Narmer, without hesitation or fear of whether or not he should. You even spy, now and again- when you're allowed to see beneath the facade- some of Jin Yuyao's desperate need to survive, to get the revenge she thought she deserved out of your own flesh, your own success.
Before you know it, you find yourself sharing silent looks in meetings, searching for the familiar flash of tricolor eyes in your direction when you know he's in the room. It's a strange kind of knowing that you don't think about too much, until suddenly, it strikes you why you keep looking. Why you're always searching, always making sure- even if silently, even if only to yourself- that he's there. That he's still in your orbit.
...no, that's a lie.
You're looking to make sure you're still in his.
Yet unlike what you might have done when you were younger, you don't act- you don't even really think to acknowledge it, past understanding the fact. You simply let it be, because you think it's nothing but a passing fascination. Something that you'll look back on and laugh at yourself over.
(You are most assuredly not laughing now.)
Worrying about acknowledging the feeling is no longer an issue; it pervades every interaction, creeping in like a strangling vine. You burn with fury because you feel humiliated- caught like a fly in a carnivorous flower that had not meant to even attract you. Because Aventurine does not think of you the way you think of him; honestly, Aventurine barely thinks of you at all- at first, at least. It's worse, when he begins to consider you a friend. When he tries to buy you thinks he thinks you'll like, instead of whatever's most expensive. When he calls you, not for business, but to gossip. When he visits, haggard and exhausted rather than his usual polished perfection, and languishes lazily among the cushions of the couch in your office.
When he gently calls you 'dear Abigail', instead of his by now half-teasing 'my friend', as if waiting for the rejection.
As if he's ever been rejected in his life, the little fool.
No, Aventurine has always been a coveted gem in many a collection- and that's also something you learn not from rumors, but from him. A directness and honesty that he only now, only hesitantly begins to show, as his visits become more regular- if still unpredictable. And you make time for him, of course you do; you can't help but want to. It only serves to further drive home the fact that this is not a passing fascination- it is something you're not quite sure you've ever let yourself feel.
That it wasn't a matter of 'letting' yourself at all is more concerning to you than it should be.
You have practice, at least, with not letting the affection show. It feels as though you've done nothing else since you were twenty-three years old, after all, than reign yourself in. If there's anything you take pride in, it's your ability to control not only yourself, but your reactions, the way you interact with others. It makes you seem cold and calculating to some, demure and composed to others. In your own heart, however, you know that what you really are is someone who has never wanted to let anyone else be the reason why she fails.
Even your closest friends know this, aware that though they are people you allow yourself to trust, the person you will always trust above all else is yourself.
So because you're so confident you can contain it all... you are certain that somewhere along the line, you slip.
While he doesn't show it, you think Aventurine is, if not aware, then at the very least suspicious. You tell yourself that has to be the reason why he shows up less, why it feels like he's pulling away. So you do the same in turn, unwilling to let your heart be the sole casualty in the fallout that is certain to come —
— and are baffled when somehow, now, he begins to give chase.
As sudden as it is unexpected, he reaches for you, hands empty of gifts but full of promises.
But you think of yourself, standing outside the Miracle, eyes fixed on its massive height, waiting. You think of the aftermath, the silence after you put your life on the line for him- he doesn't know, you didn't tell him- and you realize... he will always do this. He will always take- without question, without hesitation- anything you offer, and then pull away because he either feels or realizes it's too much to accept, feels as though there is something you expect in return that he either cannot or will not give. You're not sure which is which.
It's hard not to be angry at yourself for being unable to tell, because you know that were it not for the rot taking root in your heart, you would be able to discern it immediately. Yet whether due to false hope or uncharacteristic foolish optimism, you know what you want the answer to be- and you also know that it won't be the one you get.
So you continue to keep your distance, but you do not keep him away.
You are, after all, a woman of your word. And it was implicit, when you accepted the hand he offered as nothing more than a friend, that you would not abandon him. Not when so much and so many had already left him behind, alone in the universe with nothing but himself to rely on.
(You can try not to love him, but you can't know you'll succeed. All you can do is try. )
It would be less difficult, however, if he didn't keep toying with you.
Not on purpose- he'd have to be paying attention to you for that. But it's still painful, nevertheless- each slippery, selfish little slip-up embedding itself into the softened, vulnerable center he's been chipping away at all this time.
And don't say no, unless you want to break my heart.
Honestly, you wonder... does he even realize that a heart that he won't allow himself to show you is hardly liable to break?
And you are certain your friends are worried that you aren't furious. That you haven't dragged him, head-first, into facing all the things he refuses to acknowledge. It's a difficult prospect to even face, because if there's anyone you've met more dead set on covering themselves in thorns than you are, it's Aventurine of Stratagems.
You don't do it, you know, because you're afraid.
People can pretend all they like, but no friendship survives an unrequited confession. Not the same way it was before, and certainly not without breaking one or both people irrevocably. Irreparably. And while before you'd been certain you were stronger than Raine's wall, you have to wonder if the damage he's already done to you wouldn't cause you to crumble. And he's been shattered enough- by others, by himself. You don't want to be another fracture he's forced to mend.
So you will remain at his side as best you can from star systems away, and if he should call, you will answer. But you will not be the one to reach out, you will no longer be the one to offer. You will not continue to give- to cut into yourself, to give the disease a means to invade- only to remain behind, bereft.
Snowfield roses will bloom if they truly wish to- and you certainly have no desire to be felled by something like this.
(You will excise the infection from the core of yourself and set it alight, if you must.)
it would not be difficult to assume that xun could simply look. peer into the future and see whether his sister would wake. sunday has always preferred certainty. but this time he understands that not knowing is its own mercy.
❛❛ i understand. ❜❜ he says gently, without the polished sympathy so many offer to fill the uncomfortable silence. he means it. every word of it. because he too has stood there before, unable to do anything. ❛❛ i hope she recovers soon. should anything change ... or you ever do feel the need to go to her. i will make certain you are able to leave and reach her as quickly as possible. ❜❜ because it is the right thing to do.
then he feels a faint vibration against his pocket. his attention faltering briefly before he retrieves his phone just for a moment before it disappears into his pocket again. ❛❛ i'm expected at the reception desk, ❜❜ he tells him, ❛❛ will you accompany me ? ❜❜
At the end of the day, it is difficult to think of Sunday as anything but kind. Oh certainly he's an exacting and remorseless taskmaster when he feels the need to be, but that hardly makes him a bad person. Or even cruel. Only that he has goals to meet and standards to upkeep and knows full well that there is only so much of it he can manage to do on his own.
(For now, at least- and even still he makes an effort to be as self-sufficient as possible.)
Acknowledging his offer with gently-closed eyes and the barest nod of his head is all Xùn can think to do. He does not tell Sunday that he not only cannot but will not return home if he can help it. Not if there's a chance that the same thing will befall another family member or one of his few remaining friends should the wrong people catch wind of his return. Unlike his current employer, Fēng Xùn does not consider himself a kind man. Not in the ways it matters.
While the interruption is a mercy, the perceived end of his time with Sunday isn't. Yet for a mercy, the Halovian invites him along, and with little else to do for the moment, he nods his head toward the door, gloved palm hovering centimeters from the small of Sunday's back. A cautious motion, not-quite contact.
𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄, there came a realisation so abrupt it nearly threw him off balance.
For perhaps the first time in his existence, this man truly wanted nothing from him. No leverage. No transaction. No careful reading between the lines for what would be demanded later. Just conversation — offered freely, accepted as it was, and allowed to end when it must.
A flicker crossed Aventurine’s face before he could stop it. Confusion, first — then something dangerously close to embarrassment for having assumed otherwise. It was a rare misstep, one he normally corrected before it ever reached the surface. Those sorts of tells had long since been polished out of him.
❝ Oh. ❞ He recovered smoothly enough, lips curling as he inclined his head, the surprise re-framed as charm. ❝ A true gentleman. ❞ This time, there was no artifice in it. He meant it.
Was it unfair, then, to have expected more? He had enjoyed the Knight’s presence — the cadence of his speech, the way he spoke as though each word had been chosen not for effect, but for meaning. It was poetic in a way Aventurine recognised all too well. He, after all, had made an art of performance.
But Argenti’s felt… sincere.
❝ Forgive me, ❞ Aventurine added lightly, tone easing, less guarded than before. ❝ I’m not accustomed to conversations that end without a tally. ❞ His gaze shifted back to the Knight, sharp but curious now. ❝ You may be the first who’s ever disappointed me by asking for nothing. ❞
Safe, however — that was another matter entirely.
❝ I can assure you I’ll do my utmost to try, ❞ he continued, answering the Knight’s concern with a shrug that was equal parts careless and honest. ❝ Though I’ve learned that safety is a… flexible concept. ❞ Wanted by more than one power, watched by more than he could count — it was simply the cost of being what he was. Still, Aventurine had survived this long by never lingering, never allowing himself to be pinned down. He smiled faintly. ❝ I move quickly. It’s hard to catch what refuses to stay. ❞
There was a pause then, softer than the ones before. Aventurine studied Argenti in turn — not appraising, not calculating, just looking. An unusual indulgence.
❝ And you? ❞ he asked at last. ❝ You speak of duty as though it were a promise you’ve already made peace with breaking. ❞ A small tilt of his head. ❝ Do you ever linger, Sir Knight — or is it only others you leave behind? ❞
The question wasn’t bait this time. Just curiosity.
In that brief, fleeting instant- that minuscule second of unguarded, unmetered surprise- Aventurine's face may be the loveliest he's ever seen. It's a thought that also strikes him, sudden and unexpected, swift and unforeseen as a summer squall. He allows the thought, and the emotion that comes with it, to settle as Aventurine recovers, equally quick. His ensuing smile is, of course, just as pretty, but it is false. A practiced pleasantry with which he might soothe a bruised ego or sense of superiority, regardless of whether he is in the wrong or in the right. Of whether he's suffered insult or praise.
As swiftly as the joy of his earnestness fills him, the understanding of this facade hollows it out.
"One does endeavor to such," he agrees, because he cannot- will not allow himself to fall to anything false. Not when it seems as though Aventurine still doesn't quite expect anything but. Oh he seeks to want to believe, but Argenti cannot believe that a man so deeply entrenched in the landscape in which Aventurine's facets have been polished would ever believe something so easily.
So he smiles, and dips his head, hand to heart, and shakes his head gently.
"There is nothing to forgive. You are but tempering your expectations as you are accustomed to. Far be it from me to hold against you something surely meant to keep yourself in a standing that favors you." Such reactions, Argenti well knows, are usually born of necessity, and that necessity born of inequality. This much, even he knows, regardless of how inelegant the truth may be. Those like Aventurine that thrive despite are to be lauded, in his opinion, all the more.
When he responds again, it's in that same coy, though now more contrite manner. He will try, he says, but nothing is a guarantee. While that may be true, Argenti cannot help but once more worry about just what may await his charge on the other side of his current predicament.
"Something being hard to catch doesn't mean it's impossible," he replies at last, procuring a rose from within his armor. That it is still somehow pristine is a mystery he does not acknowledge. With great care, he tucks the flower- not into Aventurine's hair, but into the collar around his neck, twining the stem carefully around the leather to hold it fast. "Now, whether it remains caught is another thing entirely, no?"
Then he turns his head, the weight of Aventurine's gaze settling upon him, somehow meaningful. Argenti pauses, giving the question thought, and weighs his words with more gravity than usual. After all, duty is a knight's calling.
"I am Argenti of the Honorclad- and I am not a man wont to dereliction of duty, my good Stoneheart. It is... to shirk such, as a Knight of Beauty is to falter in one's beliefs. And such things are... ones that I can ill afford to allow to come to pass." He cannot falter. He cannot stray. Beauty is an ideal he must strive to with his all- and it leaves precious little space for much else. "Even should I wish to, I could not linger- my duty lies out in the universe. Should someone wish to follow... I would hardly stop them, but I could promise them nothing. A Knight of Beauty seldom belongs, after all, only to himself."
Familiars' eyes watch as the figure manifests behind their master. Though no sound but senses shared, Ashaf picked up on the presence quickly. The man's chest tightened briefly at the surprise of a silken voice. Adrenaline spikes disappeared as quickly as it came. And so, we meet.
"Mm- likewise," Ashaf shifted his gaze toward the disembodied voice. As he stepped back for space, the pieces were finally put together. It is quite peculiar trying to imagine snap shots from many angles and distances. Eyeing the figure head to toe, already trying to determine who they might be. Their choice of clothing isn't recognizable to him... maybe it could be a part of new fashion in a level Ashaf rarely visits. No matter- the more important thing to figure out now: who and what is he?
A quirk to his brow as the man guesses his skill set. Warlock? Well, terminology tells me they aren't really from the area. "I feel it depends on the type of secrets we trade here," he coos softly. "I, too, wouldn't mind a trade of skills. Invisibility, was it? I haven't quite figured that one out yet." An inviting smirk played on Ashaf's features. Compliments tend to butter people up to his onslaught of questions about themselves. Nevermind his questions- Ashaf's spotlight is on the ankou.
"Yes and no." So helpful, this one. He finds himself studying the man- sharp-eyed, gaunt, pale, well-dressed. The kind of air that's steeped in politeness but isn't actually particularly nice. A razor in the silk, so to speak. Which is fine by him, but the unfortunate thing is those types are usually clever- cleverer than him in any case. And when a clever person gets on your case, they're hard to shake. "But I guess we'll see what kind of secrets are on offer, yeah?"
Gwyn's used to people being wary of him on looks alone. Scared, even. This one is neither- at least not in a way that really counts. No, what he is most is curious, and that's a dangerous thing indeed. Running a hand through his hair, the other reaches for his cigarette and pulls it from his mouth, letting the smoke trail out on the heels of a low, steady sigh. Peering at him from the corner of his eye, he gives him another once-over- more appreciative this time, because far be it from him not to enjoy someone pretty to look at- and drags his hand from his hair to the back of his neck.
As he rolls it slightly, the whorls of ink beneath his chin become more blatant, the black stretching down beneath the neck of his shirt.
"Though fair warning, not too sure I could even teach you that. Trick of the trade, and all." It's less active invisibility than existing on a plane that the average mortal can't perceive. Though given that this is clearly no average mortal, maybe he's just gotten a bit lucky. Tapping his tongue ring against his teeth, he rolls the cigarette to one side of his mouth, quirking his lips into a lopsided smile.
"How about we start with introductions? Pretty boy like you's gotta have a pretty name to go with those eyes, yeah?"
